


The Wounds that Don't Heal: Never Go to War, My Darling

by LibertyKingdom



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 18th Century, Annlah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibertyKingdom/pseuds/LibertyKingdom
Summary: Little Keturah comes to her mother's rescue when she is in need of it the most. Based on an ask send by @thestrongdoveMy muse has been acting strange, send one for your muse to…℟ - Hug my muse from behind without saying a word





	The Wounds that Don't Heal: Never Go to War, My Darling

The sounds of her young children laughing and playing fade into the beckoning howl the wind. Midnight black fabric flaps about from its spot on the laundry-line briefly catching Anna’s gaze. It is one of the same petticoats she had hung countless times during the war and would probably hang a thousand more times until the good hand of Providence calls her home. The petticoats innocent meaning was lost now thanks to its use as a signal; a way to let her friends know she needed to communicate with them without the enemy catching on. It seems strange now- almost as if the fabric itself belongs to another life and some other Anna.

The gale sweeps the fabric upwards in the direction of the Sound as if, crying out for the attention of a spy-ring that had long ago served its purpose and disbanded. Each member was now married save for Townsend and set in their own busy lives. There was no expectation that anyone would think to respond, not after four years of no reply and no word. The war was over and with it the close partnership of the spies involved. Still, her gaze follows it like an arrow on a spinning compass, nearly wishing the fabric contained the power to draw forth one more gathering of old friends.

Tension mars the young mother’s brows as she dolefully gazes across the water searching for the rickety old whaleboat that oft frequented the shores. The rumble of a storm is brewing somewhere deep inside of her, the first unsettled flashes of discord-spun lightning sweep across her heart like sparks flittering about a pan full of powder about to explode into action. Her soul grows troubled, caught in the tangle of silvery webs of old flashbacks and reemerging memories. Two trembling hands absently trace over her child swollen abdomen. It was for them, for the future of her family she had risked everything to save the Cause. And whilst she is grateful that Providence had blessed them with the victory, she can not help but ask, if it had all been worth it.

The Revolution truly never ended. Its imprint conceals itself in the shadows of the mind, rising like an ash covered Phoenix to haunt one’s waking and sleeping. The conflict spills into anxious veins and churns within her pregnant stomach. The smells of musk, gunpowder, cannons, guns, ale, and death never abandon any soldier. The cries of the camp’s wounded and dying linger in some disharmonious chord. Scarlet stains her hands though they have been washed clean many times. There is no earthly absolution for the battle tested soldiers nor mercy for the eyes that had seen too much. The hellish experience might physically be over but it is trapped, everlasting and eternal in the twisted corridors where no one else can see or touch them. Anna was plagued both day and night by her own participation. As a result, she sought to conceal the unpleasant things of this life from her children in order to remove them from having to carry the same burdens she did.

Anna, however troubled, had been extremely lucky. Her beloved Selah had survived the Jersey. Whereas, her dear friend Samuel Tallmadge and many like him, had not. She had lived to see America snatch the marvelous crown of independence from the iron-sharpened talons of the British.

A terrible strain of a wailing violin filters in from the distance, though no musician was present. Her eyes mist with tears for all the friends that had left Setauket behind including: Major Edmund Hewlett, Theodore Groves, Abigail, and her son Cicero. A part of her yearns to know how they were doing. If they were safe. Even more importantly, if they were okay.

Tiny arms coil around the pregnant brunette’s middle from behind, catching her entirely off guard. Panicked hues drift downwards to find her six-year-old daughter, the very apple of her eye peering up at her. How she had known her mother needed that embrace, she can not fathom but she is grateful to her empathetic and innocent dove. Anna rapidly blinks away the silver sheen of mist caught within her eyes as she crouches down and pulls Keturah forward and into a proper bear-hug.

 

“Don’t you ever go to war, my darling. For you will emerge tainted, troubled, and become sad like your moma,” she murmurs dolefully.


End file.
